


The Adventures of Cosette, the Foxiest Slytherin Hogwarts has Ever Seen

by downtheroadandupthehill



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Gen, once the hormones kick in, will be pairings and more characters later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-11 22:06:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Cosette spears her pancakes in the morning, she feels a hard tap of fingers into her back. She turns her head, to see Grantaire and Bahorel’s happy faces. For the first time since saying goodbye to her Papa yesterday morning, Cosette feels a real smile forming on her face.</p>
<p>“You’re definitely a Slytherin,” Bahorel says.</p>
<p>“But we like you anyway,” Grantaire adds.</p>
<p>And Bahorel gives a terrifying glare to the rest of the Slytherin table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Day

Her father doesn’t cry at Platform 9 ¾. Cosette is convinced he’s going to, because he’s been dreading this for three years—her going away to Hogwarts, and if she’s honest with herself, she’s been dreading it, too. Not as much he has, because of course she’s thrilled to be going, as well, but she doesn’t like leaving him alone. The home they’ve shared is ancient and dark and cold, and the thought of Papa there without her makes her heart ache. In July she’d even brought up the idea of homeschooling, but Valjean had dismissed that with a warm chuckle.

“Hogwarts is an excellent opportunity for you, Cosette. Don’t let an old man’s sentimentality keep you from pursuing it.”

She carries her cat—called Cat, short for Catherine, a soft, grey thing that is far too smart for anyone’s good—in its wire travel cage. Papa carries her trunk for her—doesn’t even need to charm it to help him bear its weight—and he doesn’t cry. Cosette does, almost, but because Papa is being strong for her, she supposes she can be strong for Papa, too. His beard is rough against her cheek as he leans down to embrace her, and she promises to write him every other day.

As the train pulls away, she presses her nose to the glass and waves goodbye to him, and he doesn’t let his smile falter.

…..

The ride to Hogwarts feels too long, not long enough. She shares her compartment with a boy in Ravenclaw blue who doesn’t stop fretting over whether or not the seats have been properly cleaned since last year, and keeps shooting unhappy glances at Cat, whom Cosette is clutching in her lap. His friend, a Gryffindor with curly brown hair and dark eyes, seems a little friendlier, and holds the nervous boy’s hand until he quiets down, manages a tentative smile. They seem alright, but Cosette has never really had a friend before, so she buries her face in one of her shiny new textbooks, instead.

Night has fallen by the time all of the fresh-faced first-years are lined up inside the Great Hall, its stars twinkling down at them from the beautiful ceiling. Cosette feels awestruck but tries not to look it, and tries to ignore the mumbling of the students around her about sorting and houses. Her palms begin to feel damp, but she tells herself that she’ll be  _fine_ , Papa was a Gryffindor, and she’ll be, too. He’s raised her to be brave and honest, just like him—a Gryffindor, for certain.

When the hat reaches something-or-other-Enjolras, Cosette knows she’s next, tries to swallow down her nervous and stand up straight.

“Euphrasie Fauchelevant!” the deputy headmaster calls out, and Cosette doesn’t wince at the use of her given name. She wriggles through the crowd of as-yet-unsorted students, to perch on the stool at the front of the Great Hall, almost grateful when the ancient fabric of Sorting Hat falls right over her eyes, so she isn’t forced to stare back at the hall of people staring her way.

It’s a shock, at first, hearing the quiet murmur of the hat now, deliberating for her ears alone.

“Ah, another difficult choice. Very bright, and kind, too. No surprise, considering your father—but there’s something else—something a tad more  _interesting_.”

_Interesting?_  she tries to question, but not speaking the word aloud.

“You’d be a decent fit for any house. Rare, that. But—hmmm, not Slytherin?” An almost grandfatherly chuckle, at that. “You might not think so, not yet, but I’d hate to see you waste your talents elsewhere.”

Cosette’s vision is already darkened from the black felt of the Sorting Hat, but she closes her eyes, anyway. She’s confused, never thought she’d be at odds with the will of the supposedly all-knowing Sorting Hat. She doesn’t want to argue, didn’t think she’d have to. She doesn’t want to be a Slytherin, because Slytherins are  _mean_ , everyone knows that, and Cosette doesn’t want to be mean—

“Good leaders, too, and you’re more than clever enough for it.  _Meanness_  is not one of the stated qualities of the house, if memory serves.”

Cosette wonders how long she’s been sitting there, wants more than anything to get this over with. She wipes her sweating hands on her robes, takes a deep breath. When she nods, the hat slips a little further over her eyes.

…..

The warmth of the Slytherin table’s congratulations surprises her, at first, as she joins them at their table. They shake her hands and smile, and Cosette makes an attempt to look happy. She could’ve argued further, but relented—she supposes a  _real_  Slytherin would’ve made more of an argument if they weren’t getting their way, and maybe the hat was wrong, were there do-overs for when the hat had made such a silly mistake?

She should gasp in awe and pleasure when dinner appears on her plate, roast chicken and gravy smelling divine, especially since she hasn’t eaten since breakfast—but Cosette picks at her meal, takes only a few bites, wondering how much a  _Slytherin_ for a daughter will have disappointed Papa.

When everything is said and done, the Slytherin Head Girl rises to her feet, instructs all of the new first-years to follow her to the Common Room. Cosette obeys, her head down and hands bunched in her robe, not even trying to pretend like she fits in, or feels like she belongs here. Portraits chatter mindlessly to the newcomers, some bright and cheery and others hissing insults. It’s all too much noise and excitement for how she feels now, and she wishes she’d been able to stay at home, and never have come to this wretched place.

No one notices when she darts into the first silent, shadowed corridor they pass, and ducks behind a dusty suit of armor.

Cosette doesn’t cry, not really, because Cosette never cries. She won’t cry over this new school or even being in Slytherin house, because it’s not all so bad, is it? She remembers her life before her father came, barefoot in the snow and shivering in tattered, too-small clothes. Cosette didn’t cry even then, and she certainly won’t cry now, not when there’s a giant castle to live in and her own bed to sleep in and three whole, tasty meals every day.

But she curls up behind the suit of armor and wraps her arms around her knees, wondering how she is going to bear all of this until she gets to go home for Christmas.

…..

She must fall asleep, because when she opens her eyes again the castle is dark, illuminated by the faintest glimmer of candlelight. It’s a pair of hushed voices along the corridor that woke her, she realizes, as she hears them carry on.

“There’s got to be extra pumpkin pie down in the kitchens.”

“First night here and you already need  _more_  food?”

“And an excuse to wander the castle. What’s wrong with that? Besides, the house elves probably missed us all summer long.”

It’s two boys, Cosette can see, as they come around the corner. They’re big but not  _too_  big, so not sixth or seventh years, at least. Well, one is big, anyway, tall and broad, while the other is lanky at best. So, they’re big in comparison to Cosette, and she debates shrinking further into her sorry excuse for a hiding place. But she’d like to sleep tonight, too, even in a Slytherin dormitory, and maybe these older boys might know where to go. She swallows her trepidation and pokes her head around the suit of armor.

“Hello,” she says, and she’s grateful her voice isn’t trembling.

“What the hell?” the skinny one gasps.

“Hello there,” the other replies, a little more friendly. They both move closer to her. The bigger one has a dim light at the tip of his wand, and he shines it in her face. “And who are you?”

“I’m Cosette. Can you please—”

“Are you looking for the kitchens, too?”

“I’m Grantaire.” The skinny one holds out his hand, and she shakes it, politely. “This one who apparently didn’t get enough at supper is Bahorel.” He nudges his friend.

That’s when Cosette notices that both of their loosened ties are striped black and yellow—Hufflepuff, and not likely to know where she’ll find her bed. Even so, she plunges on ahead. “You wouldn’t know where my Common Room is, would you?” She attempts to smile, but it feels false and out of place on her face.

“Oh, it’s a first year!” Bahorel grins, then corrects himself. “Well, she is. You are. What’s your house? Are you Hufflepuff too?”

Cosette shakes her head, and her smile fades entirely. “Slytherin.”

Grantaire, mop of black curls and all, frowns and shakes his head until Bahorel punches him in the side.

“We actually don’t know where that is,” Bahorel says, looking apologetic. “But you can join us in the kitchens, if you like?”

She sighs and she feels her shoulders slump, because that doesn’t really help her at all. But she supposes it’s better than lingering in the corridor in what’s practically the middle of the night, so she nods her acquiescence and follows their lead, sneaking through the school.

…..

“And  _what_  are you three up to at this hour?”

They were  _almost there_ , according to Bahorel, a minute ago. That is, until the deputy headmaster stopped them, shining a bright light in their faces. Cosette stills squints against it, feels herself shaking, though she feels marginally less afraid with Grantaire and Bahorel on either side of her.

Grantaire starts to sputter, and Bahorel isn’t much help, either.

“We were, um, the thing is,” is all he manages, while the professor’s scowl deepens.

“I got lost on my way to the owlery,” Cosette breaks in. “After supper. I wanted to write my father a letter. But I finally found it when they were just leaving, but we’ve been wandering around for so long now looking for the Slytherin Common Room. They were helping,” she is sure to emphasize, and fabricates a self-deprecating smile. “I’ve already forgotten where it is.” Because she’s certainly not going to admit that she had been too afraid to go there in the first place.

Cosette holds her breath, not daring to look at Grantaire or Bahorel.

The professor can’t contain the roll of his eyes, but he nods, seems to believe her. “You two,” he says, indicating the boys at Cosette’s side. “You know where your dormitory is. Off to bed, classes in the morning. I am the head of Slytherin house, Miss Fauchelevant, so I will show you where your Common Room. Please take note.”

Grantaire is grinning and Bahorel has the temerity to wink at her, as they bound back to their room.

…..

When Cosette spears her pancakes in the morning, she feels a hard tap of fingers into her back. She turns her head, to see Grantaire and Bahorel’s happy faces. For the first time since saying goodbye to her Papa yesterday morning, Cosette feels a real smile forming on her face.

“You’re definitely a Slytherin,” Bahorel says.

“But we like you anyway,” Grantaire adds.

And Bahorel gives a terrifying glare to the rest of the Slytherin table.


	2. Flying Lesson

“You’ve never flown before?” Bahorel asks her, a look of astonishment on his face.

Cosette blushes, but shakes her head. She’d joined them at the Hufflepuff table for lunch—nervous about it only a week ago, until Grantaire had shrugged dramatically and said  _We are_ Huffepuffs _for chrissakes. Trust me, none of them are going to get their knickers in a twist if you decide to sit with us_. She made an effort to eat at least one meal with the Slytherins each day, because, whether she liked it or not, she ought to show some house loyalty. That’s what her father told her in his letter, at least, only adding that he’s sure she looks lovely in green. It had been a relief, escaping Papa’s disappointment—though he had expressed some worry over the upcoming flying lesson required of all first years.

“Not even a toy broomstick?” Bahorel grows more incredulous, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“Give her a break,” Grantaire interrupts, and steals a buttery potato from Bahorel’s plate. Bahorel just glares. “I hadn’t either before my first year.”

Bahorel sighs, exasperated. “That’s because you’re Muggle-born! Which is a perfectly reasonable excuse. What’s yours, Cosette?”

A week ago she might’ve been a little intimidated by Bahorel’s brawn paired with the nearly-always-aggressive volume of his voice. But now Cosette just echoes Grantaire. She rolls her eyes at Bahorel, snags a piece of crust off his treacle tart and pops it in her mouth. After chewing and swallowing—because even if she’s somehow managed to befriend the sloppiest barbarians in the school, she is a  _lady,_  and doesn’t speak with her mouth full.

“I’ve never wanted to fly a broomstick, really. Papa thinks its dangerous, and I spent most of my childhood indoors, anyway,” Cosette explains. “But I’m eager to learn tomorrow.”

“Today. We’ll teach you today,” Grantaire says, throwing his fork on the table for emphasis.

Bahorel snorts. “Good idea. We don’t want you to embarrass yourself in front of all those nasty Slytherins. Not like Grantaire here—”

“Shut up.” Grantaire flushes bright red, and she hears the familiar sound of his foot connecting with Bahorel’s shin underneath the table.

“Last year, during our flying lesson, Grantaire was barely off the ground and he fell right off his broom. Even broke his collarbone, somehow.” Bahorel chuckles, and Grantaire kicks him again.

“But of course we were all  _Hufflepuffs_  so everyone was full of concern, nice about it, really. Only this asshole here was literally on the ground, he was laughing so hard,” Grantaire says, gesturing at Bahorel.

Bahorel leans in toward Grantaire, gives him a sugary sweet smile. “And isn’t that when you decided we were destined to be together forever?” He winks, and then Grantaire is laughing, too.

“So will you really teach me today?” Cosette asks, looking back and forth between her new friends. They’re always laughing at her, at each other, but never maliciously—she’s most used to life with her father, full of serious conversation and somber smiles—but she finds she likes this just as much.

“Of course,” Grantaire says, warmly. “After classes, before supper, alright?”

“You’ll use  _his_  broom, though,” Bahorel adds, with mock seriousness. “I just got a new one, and I won’t have you flying it straight into the Whomping Willow.”

…..

They meet up again in the Great Hall after class. Cosette comes from Charms, which she is already falling in love with, and Grantaire and Bahorel from History of Magic—she can tell by the way Grantaire is yawning and attempt to rub the sleep from his bleary eyes. The boys have already fetched their brooms from their trunks, so the three of them stroll out to the Quidditch Pitch together. It’s an enormous field with the greenest grass Cosette has ever seen. At each end stands three tall hoops, and there are four sets of stands along the edge of the field, draped in the colors of each house.

“Practices don’t usually start this early,” Bahorel tells her. “So we’ll have it all to ourselves.”

“Do either of you play Quidditch?” Cosette asks.

“Not yet,” Grantaire says, handing his broom to Cosette. He has a new broom, too, apparently, since he’d never had one until halfway through his previous year, but it’s an old, inexpensive model. Earlier, he’d confessed he wouldn’t mind if she broke it, just so he might get a newer, better one. “Students don’t usually make house teams until their third years at the earliest.”

“But we’re still doing try-outs next week!” Bahorel says, as he mounts his own broom. It’s not top-of-the-line, but it’s by no means a bad broom, either. Cosette still can’t keep the names and models straight in her head, with the way they’d been rattling them off during lunch. She watches Bahorel kick off the ground and shoot into the air.

“Show-off,” Grantaire mutters. More brightly, he tells Cosette, “Bahorel and I are going to be Beaters together. Probably not this year, but maybe next. Sometimes the team lets us practice with them, because it’s a good idea to start training the upcoming generations. You’re definitely small enough to be a good Seeker, you know.”

Cosette’s mouth twists into a wry smile. “Let’s see how I fly first, okay?”

Grantaire yells for Bahorel to get the hell down, because he’s supposed to be helping him teach Cosette, goddammit. Bahorel obeys, reluctantly, with a wide smile and windblown hair. The broom feels heavy in Cosette’s hands, and the wood is even splintered in a few places, which she picks at she waits for further instructions.

“Now tomorrow at your flying lesson, Madam Hooch is going to tell you set your broom on the ground and yell  _up_ , until it flies up into your hand. Don’t do that. It makes you look like a tool, and no one actually does that in real life,” Bahorel says, and Cosette nods, wonders if she should be taking notes. “It’s really not as difficult as people make it out to be, unless you’re Grantaire, but you aren’t, so you’ll be fine.”

She giggles, while Grantaire scowls and crosses his arms.

“Now mount your broom, like this,” Bahorel continues. “It’s kind of a learn-as-you-go thing, so why don’t you just kick off and see what happens? Just. Go slow? Grantaire will be on the ground to make sure you don’t hurt yourself too badly if you fall.”

Cosette feels her heart pounding—she hadn’t been nervous before, but the idea of actually taking off has her reeling—and she glances to Grantaire, at her side. In place of his scowl toward Bahorel, Grantaire smiles at her, reassuringly, and raises his wand. “I know enough magic to make sure you don’t hit the ground too hard, if it comes to that. Good reflexes, too,” he says, and even though the tone of his voice is casual, almost lazy, she knows Grantaire well enough by now to know that he means his words, and that she’ll be  _fine_.

She feels silly, kicking off, because the broom hasn’t yet demonstrated the slightest inkling of its desire to fly, so she’s half-certain that she will only trip and collapse in a heap, laughing at herself.

But instead, she actually  _leaves the ground_ , only slightly, but she and Grantaire’s broom are definitely hovering in the air. Bahorel effortlessly follows her, floats at her eye level. “Good! Now, tilt the handle upwards, just a little, like this.”

She slowly rises higher, and a breathless laugh escapes her. “This is amazing!”

Again, Bahorel is right with her, his familiar grin grown wide and pleased. “See? We knew you’d do it.” He looks down at Grantaire, watching them both above him. “Don’t worry! You’ll have your turn in just a few minutes!” Bahorel calls down to him. He meets Cosette’s eyes again. “Let’s try moving forward now. Lean into your broom—but not too much! We don’t need you shooting off into the Forbidden Forest. Careful now.”

She follows his instructions, eyebrows furrowed in concentration—and when she succeeds, lets out a triumphant  _whoop_. With the forward motion, against the breeze, her hair blows in a tangle around her face but Cosette doesn’t mind at all. They’ve barely even started and it’s already exhilarating.

“What do I do now?” she demands of Bahorel, who looks shocked for a moment at the note of command in her tone, but then he’s laughing again.

…..

Eventually it’s time for supper, even though Cosette protests because  _it’s still light out, and this is valuable flying time._

“But I’m starving,” Bahorel insists, as the three of them amble back toward the castle. Cosette’s legs feel foreign beneath her, and walking seems like an awful inconvenience.

Grantaire reaches out and ruffles her hair, making it an even more unruly mess. “Don’t worry. You still get to show everyone up at your lesson tomorrow.”

At that, Cosette supposes, for a moment, that she ought to feel a little less pleased than she actually does.


	3. A Very Bahorel Christmas

“What are you doing for Christmas?” Cosette asks her friends. They trudge through the snow together, at her insistence, out to the lake to inspect if the new layer of ice is thick enough for skating. Or sliding around in their boots, as the case may be. Her voice is muffled by the green and grey scarf wrapped around her neck and the lower half of her face, but Bahorel seems to hear her.

“Taking the Express home to stay with mum and dad,” he answers. “Nothing thrilling, but at least there’s good cooking and presents.”

Cosette nods, turns to look expectantly at Grantaire, who shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets under her scrutiny.

“Staying here,” he says. “The less time I spend at home, the better. The whole magic thing still tends to scare my parents and everything is just a tad uncomfortable. My sister would let me stay with her, if her flat wasn’t so small.”

“But you’ll be so lonely!” Cosette exclaims, stopping in her tracks. “I am not allowing that.”

Grantaire just shrugs. “I have friends besides you two assholes, you know. I’ll be fine. Whatshisface—that ginger Ravenclaw kid? We had the castle almost entirely to ourselves, last year. even found a secret passage to Hogsmeade.”

“Oh hush.” She takes Grantaire’s hand—awkwardly, between her wool gloves and his vibrant yellow mittens, but she manages to squeeze it affectionately, anyway. “You’re coming home with me! Papa won’t mind at all, I promise. He’s eager to meet my friends.” The full truth of the matter was that Cosette could sense her Papa’s unease in his letters—unease that Cosette’s new friends seemed to be rowdy troublemakers teaching her how to do dangerous things likefly and sneak around the castle at night, and she was eager to prove him wrong. Or at least to prove to him that while all those things might be correct about Bahorel and Grantaire, they were still good friends for her, regardless.

“Cosette—” Grantaire tries to argue, but Cosette presses a finger to his lips.

“You might as well give up now. You know you won’t win against her,” Bahorel tells him, laughs, and claps him on the back. “But at least you’ve got somewhere to go for Christmas this year.”

When they reach the lake, Grantaire immediately volunteers Bahorel to test the ice first, as the heaviest member of their trio. Bahorel promptly falls flat on his face—and while Cosette and Grantaire prove to be only slightly more graceful than their friend, they decide to spend the next twenty minutes chuckling at his expense, while Bahorel tries very hard to pretend to mind.

…..

Cosette can’t help but notice Grantaire’s nervousness, on their train ride back to King’s Cross. He picks incessantly at imaginary hangnails along his cuticles, which Cosette has learned he only ever does when he is studying for a Potions exam, or writing an essay an hour before it’s due. He clutches tight to the small bag he’s packed for their holiday and doesn’t say much, leaving Bahorel and Cosette to fill the compartment with their chatter.

When she skips off of the train to fly into her father’s arms, she doesn’t forget about Grantaire, who has offered to carry her suitcase for her—they’re not at Hogwarts anymore, so no magic allowed, no matter how much Cosette might want to show Papa her mastery of the levitation spell. They’ve already said their goodbyes to Bahorel, who tried not to look too excited to see his mother after four long months away from her. But Grantaire hangs back, his rucksack on his back, Cosette’s suitcase dangling from his hand, and Cosette’s cat clinging to his chest, as he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot.

“And this is Grantaire,” Cosette says, brightly, linking her arm with his and practically having to drag him over to her father.

Valjean gives him a kind smile—not a threatening one, like Cosette had feared—and shakes Grantaire’s free hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Grantaire. Cosette and I are more than happy to have you at our home for Christmas.”

Grantaire just nods, and makes a crooked attempt at smiling back.

…..

“What’s wrong?” Cosette asks him, once they get a moment alone. She’s abandoned her suitcase on her bed in order to bother Grantaire, in the guest room next to hers. She’s still not sure whether to feel angry at him or not, although she feels the corners of her lips upturn almost involuntarily, as she sees that Catherine has already decided to take up residence on Grantaire’s pillow.

“Nothing,” he mumbles, shoving his pile of t-shirts into an empty dresser drawer.

“What’s wrong?” she tries again, unable to keep the bite of exasperation from her tone. She crosses her arms, and adds, “If you’re going to pout the whole time then Christmas won’t be much fun at all, you know.”

“I just don’t want you and your dad treating me like some sort of charity case, okay?” Grantaire flops onto the neatly made bed, his hand moving automatically to scratch behind Catherine’s ears. The cat starts to purr loudly, and nuzzles into Grantaire’s side.

“Shut up,” Cosette says, but gently, and joins Grantaire on the bed. “It’s not charity at all! You’re my friend and I want to spend Christmas with you, and I know you’ll have more fun having Christmas with Papa and me than staying at school all by yourself. That’s all. No charity. I swear. At least I hope you’ll have more fun more here. If Papa isn’t too terrifying. But he’s been nice to you so far so I think—”

“All right!” Grantaire says, holds his hands up in mock defense. “I get it. It’s not charity, and your dad isn’t too terrifying. Okay?”

“Good.” Cosette feels a little smug after her victory, and smiles, satisfied. “So you’ll cheer up then?”

“Yeah, yeah. Or at least after dinner. Though your dad is going to be hard-pressed to cook better than the Hogwarts house elves do.”

That makes Cosette’s smile waver and her gaze harden. “Um. About that.”

“Oh god. Your dad can’t cook, can he?”

Cosette purses her lips and shakes her head.

…..

They survive Valjean’s cooking attempts until Christmas morning, when Cosette is woken up to the smell of French toast, strawberries, and maple syrup—all of which are things that are rather difficult to mangle. She can tell from her bedroom that the French toast is definitely at least a little burned (and if only her father knew the spell to reverse that!), but probably still edible. And despite the awful food they’ve suffered through the past five days, Grantaire has been a model houseguest, and Cosette hopes that with the excitement of Christmas they’ll have even more fun.

By the time Cosette treads downstairs to the dining room, Grantaire is already seated at the table, wolfing down a full plate of blackened French toast. He’s even already dressed in jeans and a too-small sweater—a habit he’s gotten into, getting properly dressed first thing in the morning, after Cosette cooed over the sight of him in green flannel pajamas his first morning there. Catherine-called-Cat is curled up atop his bare feet underneath the table. Somehow, during the first half of her first year, Cosette accidentally lost custody of her pet to Grantaire and Bahorel both. Which, the pair of them insisted over and over again, was completely unintentional. But for now Cat seemed more than happy to be Grantaire’s socks for him, so Cosette can only shrug and giggle sleepily as she joined him at the table.

They eat in silence, save for the sound of forks clacking against plates. When Valjean finishes all of the cooking he joins them, too—he cooks himself, usually, because his spells seem to produce even worse results than his own hands.

“Happy Christmas!” he says cheerily, and Cosette rises to embrace him, briefly tuck her chin against his shoulder and stand on her tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek.

After breakfast they settle in the parlor, Cosette and her father on the sofa, with Grantaire on the floor leaning against her legs. There’s a small pine tree in the corner, decorated in fairy lights and floating ornaments, with a few wrapped boxes underneath. Cosette notices one is wrapped in old  _Daily Prophet_  issues and Spello-tape. She raises her eyebrows at Grantaire, who tilts his head up to beam at her sheepishly.

“I thought it was regular tape when I wrapped it. But it might be pretty impossible to open.”

He leans over, then, to hand her the gift, when a minor explosion comes from the fireplace. There’s a burst of purple smoke, and Cosette watches her father immediately reach for the wand in his dressing gown pocket.

Then Bahorel stumbles from the fireplace, running around the room and slapping at his legs to put out the fire that’s caught onto his trousers, while Bahorel gasps, sounding horrified, “You use  _actual Muggle fire_? Are you trying to kill me?”

He collapses in front of their wide-eyes, breathing hard and grinning now that he is no longer aflame. “Surprise! Happy Christmas, the best present of all is here!”

Grantaire promptly kicks him in the head, and he knows he must have earned some good-will from Valjean, when he doesn’t even scold him for it.


End file.
